


Enough

by curly184



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Episode: s01e06 Bastogne, M/M, Possibly pre-slash if you really squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 09:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18178631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curly184/pseuds/curly184
Summary: “I’ll head back to Bastogne,” Nixon said, interrupting Dick’s thoughts.  “I’ll probably stay there tonight and come back in the morning.”Winters nods, “Keep Doc Roe there with you tonight.  Make sure he’s okay, Nix.”





	Enough

“Eugene, get yourself into town. Get a hot meal.”

Eugene gives a slight nod and Winters hopes the medic knows this isn’t a reprimand or a punishment for his slow reactions. Winters needs Eugene to be okay, they all need Eugene to be okay.

“Kid’s falling apart.” Nixon says, as he reappears beside Winters.

“I know,” Winters sighs, watching Eugene climb into the jeep. “Funny, he was always the one I wasn’t worried about.”

It was a mistake, Winters knows that now. Not worrying about Eugene had been an error in judgement, and Dick can’t afford to make any of those. The men are relying on him to look out for them, to keep them safe, and Dick feels the weight of that on his shoulders every single day. Eugene feels it too. The men are relying on Eugene too, in a different, but no less important, way; and Dick can see that he is beginning to crack under the pressure.

The night before their jump into Normandy, Winters had no words to say to the men other than _'good luck, God bless, see you soon',_ before he pulled each of them to their feet in turn. When he got to Eugene, the last in the line, Eugene had met his eye and gave him a tiny nod and, for the briefest moment, squeezed Dick’s arm. Dick had felt immensely grateful for the simple act of reassurance, and that someone appreciated how heavy the burden of responsibility was. Once they landed in Normandy, Eugene immediately proved himself to be an incredibly capable and competent medic. The men trusted and respected him and he seemed to intuitively know who needed what. Dick recalled how Eugene had handed him a mug of coffee after the battle that saw them lose Dukeman. Nothing more than a gentle touch on his arm and a softly spoken _‘sir’_ as he handed Dick the mug of lukewarm, weak coffee. It had been a relief to know that someone else was looking out for the men. It hadn’t occurred to Dick that no-one was looking out for Doc until it was too late.

He thought back to the night when Moose was shot, how he and Welsh had panicked, unsure how much morphine to administer and forgetting to pin the empty syrettes to Moose’s jacket, how Doc had yelled at them, telling them that they were supposed to know what to do because they were the grown-ups. Harry had laughed about it afterwards, impressed at how the mild mannered, softly spoken Louisiana boy hadn’t given a damn about yelling at two officers. Eugene had been angry that night, and he'd had every right to be, but there had been fear there too. If the officers didn’t know what they were doing, how the hell were any of them going to make it out of this nightmare? Looking back now, Dick could clearly see how that moment marked the beginning of Doc’s unravelling.

Out here in the Ardennes forest, the unravelling continued. Still always there, answering the yells for medic whenever they came, patching up the men to the very best of his ability, looking after them, getting on their cases about staying warm and dry, knowing exactly who was dealing with what injuries and illnesses, but Doc Roe became distant, keeping to himself, holding everyone at arm’s length.

“I’ll head back to Bastogne,” Nixon said, interrupting Dick’s thoughts. “I’ll probably stay there tonight and come back in the morning.”

Winters nods, “Keep Doc Roe there with you tonight. Make sure he’s okay, Nix.”

 

* * *

 

Nixon has no idea what he’s supposed to say to Eugene Roe, how he’s supposed to make sure he’s okay. He’s not good at this. He’s good at maps and data and analysing information, making plans and instructing the men on how best to execute those plans. He’s not so good at looking after the well-being of those men. It’s not that he doesn’t care, he does, but he can never find the words. He doesn’t have that easy way with the men Dick has. Although Eugene has been around since their days in Toccoa, Nixon has had limited contact with him. Now that he thinks about it, aside from a handful of words exchanged over the last couple of weeks in the frozen hell-hole that is the Ardennes forest, he’s not sure he’s ever had a conversation with Doc.

After more than an hour in Bastogne, he eventually finds Eugene in the aid station, elbow deep in a man’s insides trying to locate a severed artery. Nixon can see it’s futile, but Eugene doesn’t stop. He’s muttering to himself under his breath. In French, Nixon realises after a moment. The dying soldier finally gives up his fight, his body going still. Nixon watches helplessly as Eugene balls up a bloody towel and flings it at the ground with more force than Nixon thought the man possessed. Eugene looks at the man for a moment, then glances up and catches Nixon’s eye, who can see the pain and hopelessness and guilt clearly written on Doc’s fine features. It’s one of the few times in his life when Nixon is unsure what to do. He wants to comfort Doc, but has no idea how. And part of him feels uncomfortable at witnessing such a raw display of emotion.

He walks over to Eugene and escorts him – physically escorts him, one hand on Doc’s shoulder, the other on his lower arm – to where there is hot food being handed out. Nixon sits across from him, watching him as they eat their bowls of what is passing for stew around here. At least it is warm.

“Did you know him?” Nixon asks.

Doc shakes his head, “No, sir.”

A medic Nixon doesn’t recognise approaches them, handing Eugene a pair of gloves. “Don’t give these ones away, you’re gonna freeze out there,” the man says, clapping a hand to Eugene’s shoulder.

Gene gives a slight smile as he takes the gloves, and Nixon watches as the other medic rolls his eyes. They all know Eugene will hand the gloves over to the first person who needs them.

“Stay safe, Gene,” the man calls as he walks away.

“Yeah, you too, Rob.”

Rob. Not sir, not sergeant or captain, Doc had used the man’s name. It occurs to Nixon that he hasn’t heard Doc call any of the Easy Company men by their first names, never mind their nicknames, in a long time. Maybe not since before their jump on D-Day. Certainly not while they’ve been holed up in the freezing Ardennes forest. He finds himself wondering when it had changed. And why.

Eugene had never exactly been the life and soul of the party. He’d always been quiet, but back at Toccoa, and at Aldbourne, he’d been involved. He sat with the other men, talked to them, laughed with them, ate with them. Now, Doc was usually alone. If he spoke to the men, it was to ask about their well-being, or it was to reassure wounded men they would be okay. Nixon had been surprised when Eugene had been plucked for medic training, he couldn’t help feeling it was a waste of a good soldier. Eugene had been good in training; good in weapons, good at tactics and navigation. His fitness was second to none; he could run Currahee with the best of them, barely breaking a sweat. He was a thinker, but he also worked on instinct. He hadn’t hesitated at jump training either. For someone so unassuming and softly spoken, he was fiercely courageous. And now Nixon realised that was exactly what made Eugene Roe an excellent medic. Someone yelled ‘medic’, and Eugene ran, often right into the line of fire without a moment’s hesitation.

They finish their food and Nixon leads an exhausted Eugene back to a half bombed out building that is serving as Regiment HQ, to an upstairs room that was almost completely bare, aside from a two beds with worn out mattresses and threadbare, scratchy blankets. A palace in comparison to their foxholes.

“Get some sleep,” Nixon says, “I’ll be back later.”

 

* * *

 

Nixon tries to stay quiet when he comes back into the room later that night, but the combination of the bare wooden floor, his heavy boots and Vat 69 makes it impossible.

“Sorry,” he whispers quietly, kicking off his boots.

Eugene untangles himself from the blanket and moves to get up off the bed.

“Whoa, where do you think you are going?” Nixon asks.

“I can’t sleep, Captain. I’ll go to the aid station, make myself useful.”

“Oh no you won’t,” Nixon replies, pushing him gently back towards the bed, “Winters orders, hot meal and some sleep.”

For a moment, Eugene looks like he’s going to argue, for a split second he gets that look in his eye, the look he had the night he tore Dick and Harry a new one after they gave Moose too much morphine. Nixon had enjoyed watching that particular display, probably more than he should have.  The fight goes out of Eugene as quickly as the threat of it appeared and he sits down on the edge of the bed, appearing completely beaten and so young it almost hurts Nixon to look at him. He has to remind himself that Doc isn’t that young, not really. Only a few years younger than Nixon. But none of them fighting this war are exactly old.

“It’s too damn cold to sleep,” Eugene says, as Nixon sits down on the bed beside him.

Nixon can’t argue with that, he can see his breath in the air. He takes out his flask and hands it to Eugene who looks at him dubiously. “You know this doesn’t actually make you any warmer, right?” But he takes a mouthful anyway and Nixon grins at him.

“Move over,” Nixon said, gesturing for Eugene to move over on the bed towards the wall. Nixon wraps one of the blankets around Eugene, tucking it in between the medic's slim body and the cold stone wall. Then he lies beside him and wraps the other blanket around them both. The room doesn’t feel any warmer than those damn foxholes, and if it is acceptable for two or three men to huddle together in a foxhole for warmth, Nixon reasons it is perfectly acceptable for him and Doc to huddle together for warmth in this freezing room. Nixon lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Eugene is lying on his side, back pressed against the wall, hands curled in towards his chest, almost as though he is trying to put as much distance between himself and Nixon as he possibly can.

“That medic earlier, did you train with him?” Nixon asks.

Eugene doesn’t speak for a moment and when Nix glances over at him, Doc’s eyebrows are knitted together as he tries to figure out who the medic from earlier is. “Oh, no. I just met him out here.”

“You seemed friendly with him.”

Eugene gives a non-committal shrug.

“You don’t seem as friendly with the other men in Easy Company. You seem separate from them,” Nixon says. The words feel clumsy coming out of his mouth. He’s not as good as this as Dick is. Dick would know exactly what to say to Doc, exactly how to get him to talk.

Eugene lets out a soft, breathy laugh, “I guess it’s easier that way, sir.”

Why?” Nixon probes.

“Easier to patch up a soldier you don’t really know than see your buddy wounded and bleeding. I don’t want to watch any more of them die, it’s just easier if…” he trails off.

“If you don’t make friends.” Nixon finishes for him. Beside him, Eugene doesn’t react.

“That’s not good for you, Doc. We all need people. Especially out here.”

Doc is often by himself; he sleeps in his own foxhole, alone, unless Spina is around. Sometimes, when Nixon is out checking the line in a middle of the night, he wakens Doc, intending to send him to another hole where some of the others are, for company and body heat. Eugene usually refuses, instead insisting on walking with Nixon to check how the men are doing before returning to his own foxhole. Recently, Nixon has taken to leaving Eugene where he is, instead stopping by Doc’s hole last and climbing in beside him for a few hours. They don’t talk, but Doc always seems grateful for the body heat. Sometimes, Nixon shares his flask of whisky with him, and once, Gene dug half a bar of chocolate out of his bag and they shared the remaining squares. Most nights, Nixon just sits there while Eugene sleeps for a few hours, his head resting heavily on Nixon’s shoulder.

Nixon can feel Eugene shivering and moves closer to him, sharing what body heat he has with the pale skinned, dark haired man beside him. When he glances over at him, Nixon is shocked to find Doc’s dark eyes glistening, tears gathering and silently spilling down his cheeks.

“Hey, Doc, it’s okay,” Nixon says, turning on his side to face Eugene and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay. No matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

“Doc, it’s not your fault.”

Nixon understands now why Eugene is finding it so tough, why he looks so exhausted and haunted. He has taken on the responsibility of keeping the men alive, and when he can’t do that, Eugene takes on the guilt.

Nixon gets it, more than he wants to admit. After Operation Market Garden, Nixon was eaten up by the guilt that he could have done more, that he should have done more. He thought the intelligence was good; they’d find little or no resistance in Holland and expected to take the Germans by surprise. It hadn’t worked out that way, and good men had died. Nixon blames himself for those deaths. Maybe if he’d paid better attention, he’d have seen the flaws in the plan. For a second, he considers telling Doc about this, but the man looks so defeated and Nixon doesn’t want to add to the burden he is carrying. Instead he finds himself whispering the words Dick said to him after he told his friend of the guilt he felt. “It’s not your fault. You do the best you can with what you have at the time. And that's enough, none of us can do any more than that.”

Eugene’s eyes are closed, and he gives no indication that he heard Nixon. Nixon pulls the medic closer and continues to stroke Eugene’s shoulder with his thumb in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. The cuffs and front of the Eugene’s jacket are stained dark with dried blood; there is blood and dirt embedded around his finger nails and in the cracks in the skin of his hands. Seeing the dried blood on Eugene’s skin and clothes gives Nixon a new appreciation for the medic and the horrors he faces on a daily basis. Nixon knows without a doubt that he couldn’t do Eugene’s job.

His eyes drift up to Eugene’s face; his eyes are closed and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, his eyebrows knitted together in a tiny frown; almost as though he is concentrating on a particularly delicate task. His skin is pale and his nose is red from the unrelenting cold. Then, not for the first time, Nixon notices Doc’s eyelashes – long and thick and dark against his pale cheeks. Nixon imagines that Eugene Roe was never short of female attention back home in Louisiana. Something that feels a little like jeaolousy begins to swell in Nixon's chest at the thought of Eugene with a woman and he shakes his head lightly, as though trying to get rid of the thought.

Eventually, Doc stops shivering and Nixon feels the man’s body relax as he falls asleep. Nixon turns onto his back again and lies awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling and glancing over occasionally to look at Eugene. Eventually, sleep finds him too, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Doc’s breathing. A few times during the night Eugene startles when someone in the streets outside yells for a medic. Eyes barely open, he tries to climb over Nixon to get to the person who is calling. Each time, Nixon shushes him, pushing him back until he lies down again.

Nixon wakes the next morning to find Eugene’s head buried into his shoulder, his jacket tangled in Eugene’s clenched fists. He is sleeping soundly, and he is warm. He doesn’t look as pale and his nose no longer has that pink glow. They’ll need to get moving soon, but it seems a shame to disturb Eugene when he looks so comfortable and relaxed. Nixon decides to stay where he is and enjoy the warmth for a little while longer.

About twenty minutes later, Doc stirs beside him. Nixon watches, a smirk on his face, as Eugene opens his eyes, staring straight into Nixon’s jacket, that tiny frown appearing on his face as his brain tries to figure out where he is.

“Shit, sir. I’m sorry!” he exclaims suddenly, moving off Nixon’s shoulder and letting go of his jacket. His cheeks are slightly flushed, but Nixon isn’t sure if that is from embarrassment or from finally feeling warm. Either way, Nixon can’t help but laugh.

They gather together some supplies to take back to the line. Thanks to a supply drop, the aid station is well stocked and Eugene looks delighted with his haul of morphine, bandages, penicillin and plasma. And almost deliriously happy about finding a pair of scissors.

They pull up outside CP and Eugene jumps out, grabbing one of the boxes. Nixon lifts the other box, stacking it on top of the box Eugene is carrying.

“Thanks, Captain Nixon.”

Nixon shakes his head, “Doc, we’ve huddled in the same foxhole, we’ve slept in the same bed for Christ's sake. Call me Nix, or Lew. Lewis if you really have to, but stop with the Captain Nixon.”

Eugene gives him a tiny smile, looking down at the ground. “Sorry, sir.”

Nixon rolls his eyes as he watches Eugene walk away. “Oh, and Doc?” he calls.

Eugene turns around to face him again, “Sir?”

“If I catch you sleeping in a foxhole by yourself when I’m out there in the middle of the night, there’ll be hell to pay. Get in with some of the other men.”

Nixon doesn’t think Doc will listen and anticipates finding him alone in his hole the next night, but Doc’s foxhole empty and Nixon finds him tucked in beside Heffron. The next night, Doc is back in his own hole, but Spina is there too. The following night, he finds him in with Smokey and More, and the night after that he is back with in Heffron. Eugene seems to gravitate towards Heffron more than any of the others, and Heffron seems to look out for Doc, making sure he’s eating, sharing his blanket with him and letting Doc lean against him as they sleep.

When Dick notices the slight changes in Doc’s demeanour, he seeks out Nixon to thank him and asks him what he had said to Eugene. Nixon gives a shrug and tells Dick, quite truthfully, that he hadn’t really said much to Doc.

And while Nixon is glad to see Doc becoming a little more involved and a little less isolated, he misses his company on his late night walks along the line and misses climbing into Eugene's foxhole for a few hours, sharing his whisky with him and watching as he sleeps, those dark lashes on his pale cheeks.


End file.
